The Redemption of Michael Hollister

by Shawn Inmon

  He slid down off the bed. His feet had just touched the floor when the door to his bedroom pushed open and Michael jumped slightly. His hand involuntarily reached under the pillow for the knife.

  “Oh, my, Michael, what are you doing awake already? You’re never awake this time of day.” Tess, his nanny of many years. Her hair was more gray than black and her face was lined, but still, she looked younger than the last time he had seen her. She had retired to Alabama in 1974.

  I know I was a disappointment to her, even though she never said anything.

  Tess had been the closest thing to a nurturing figure in his life. He felt a sudden urge. Without thought, he ran to her and threw his arms around her wide waist.

  “Now, Michael, what’s all this about? You haven’t loved on me since you were a little fella. What’s gotten into you this morning? Up on your own, now this?” While she spoke, she moved away from Michael and pulled clothes out of his dresser drawers and set them on the end of his bed. “Here now. You get dressed, and I’ll go make your breakfast.”

  She started toward the door, but stopped when Michael said, “Thank you, Tess.” She stood stock still for two beats before moving again.

  “Miracles aplenty today. Yes indeed.”

  Why in hell did I do that? Because she was kind to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.

  Tess shut the door behind her and Michael pulled the knife out. He turned it over in his small, soft hands. What to do, what to do? Take it back to the kitchen, then have to get it again every night?

  He knelt in front of the toy box and removed the firetruck, the Slinky, and some oversized blocks with letters painted on four sides. He put the knife at the bottom of the box, then piled the toys on top of it, hoping it looked as it had before.

  Not a perfect solution, but it will do for now. Guess I don’t want to leave any toys lying around, or Tess will find the knife and get worried. He twitched his mouth, a thoughtful look on his face. Wait a minute. Toys? Toys. I’m going to be expected to play with toys. Jesus Christ. He nudged the toy box with his foot. What the hell am I going to do? Tess is not going to let me watch television all day.

  His eyes rose to the bookshelf above the toy box. A full set of L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz books leaned against several Winnie the Pooh books and half a dozen Little Golden Books. He stood on tiptoe and pulled two of the Little Golden Books down: The Poky Little Puppy and The Red Hen.

  Oh, come on! Not this shit. Do they give library cards to little kids? Goddamnit, I am going to have to figure something else out, or I’ll go crazy.

  From downstairs, he heard Tess’s voice call up, “Michael, come on, you’re going to be late for school!”

  School? Oh, there’s no fucking way I am going to spend the day cooped up with a bunch of kindergarteners. Or first-graders. Or whatever class I am supposed to be in.

  Michael pulled on the clothes Tess had laid out for him—white shirt, khaki pants, dark socks—then looked at the pair of brown loafers at the end of his bed. No way those fit. They’ve gotta be way too small.

  They fit.

  Michael shook his head. I am a full-grown man in a child’s body.

  Downstairs, Michael found Tess in the kitchen. She had put a bowl of oatmeal with a pat of butter and a sprinkling of sugar on the kitchen table for him. He pulled the chair out to sit down and was dismayed to find a stack of phone books on the seat.

  I’m not even tall enough to reach the table.

  The kitchen was modern for the time, with spotless countertops and stainless steel edging. It hadn’t yet been remodeled into the avocado greens and burnt oranges that Michael remembered from the future, which was now, somehow, his past.

  With a sigh, Michael clambered up and sat down on the books. He was still barely able to see over the lip of the table. I feel like Alice after she drank from the bottle. Whatever, I’ve got to eat.

  Michael picked up the spoon and dug in.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, young man?” Tess asked.

  Michael looked at her, perplexed.

  “Your prayers?”

  Michael said, “Oh, right. Sorry I forgot, Tess,” then closed his eyes and pretended to pray. When he peeked at her through one squinted eye, Tess had hurried away to the counter, where she was packing his lunch.

  “Hurry now,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. The bus will be here in fifteen minutes, and you’ve still got to brush your teeth and run a comb through that hair.”

  Michael felt a rock in the pit of his stomach. He pushed the oatmeal away after only a few bites.

  “Tess?”

  “Yes, child, what?”

  I don’t feel so good. I think maybe I should stay home.”

  Tess bustled over to him and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. She cocked her head and squinted at him. “I won’t hear none of that, now. You go on, finish getting ready. I’ll keep an eye out for the bus.”

  She always did have my number.

  Michael eased off the chair, jumping the last few inches to the floor. He hurried upstairs, brushed his hair and teeth and was back down in less than five minutes.

  “That was awful fast. Let me smell your breath.”

  Michael was repulsed but knew he was beaten. He dutifully opened his mouth, and Tess bent over and sniffed.

  “All right. Don’t want you thinking you can pull one over on Tess.” She held out a child’s winter coat. “Here. Put this on, and run on out and catch the bus. Hurry now.”

  Michael slipped the coat on, grabbed his lunch pail, which was solid red—no Munsters or Beatles lunch boxes in the Hollister house—and headed for the back door. There was a Caldwell’s State Farm Insurance calendar hanging by the back door, turned to May 1966.

  It was misting lightly outside, typical for Middle Falls. In many parts of the country, April showers bring May flowers. In western Oregon, April showers bring more May showers. Michael turned the collar of his coat up and trudged out to the street at the spot where, as best he remembered, he was supposed to catch the bus.

  Oh, my God, I don’t want to do this. If I skip school, I’ll be found out. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon enough, so that won’t work. I can’t imagine spending all day with a bunch of retarded seven- and eight-year-olds. I can’t just run away from home yet, though. I don’t have any money, and there’s no way I can survive while I’m trapped in this tiny little body. Shit. Oh my God, I’d give anything to be old enough to just get in a car and drive away. I don’t care where, just anywhere but here.

  Michael’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the number six bus, which pulled to a stop in front of him. The front tires of the bus hit a puddle in front of the curb, splashing water up and over his boots.

  Perfect. A day spent with children and soaking wet feet.

  With a sigh of resignation, Michael climbed up into the bus. The steps seemed very high to him.

  Mr. Jenkins, the bus driver, ignored him. He was looking above his head, at a mirror that showed him the length of the bus. “Hey, you kids! Knock off the roughhousing, or I’ll send a note home to your parents.” A few of the eighth graders in the back sniggered, but the bus fell into something resembling quiet.

  The bus was half full, which meant there were open seats to choose from. He saw two boys looking through a stack of baseball cards, but most of the other kids up front were just staring out the window like little zombies.

  Can’t go to the back. The big kids, the junior-highers, sit in the back. Little kids sit up front, where it’s a little safer.

  Michael bypassed the first empty seat and sat in the second, sliding toward the middle.

  Maybe if the bus doesn’t fill up, I won’t have some first-grader sitting beside me picking his nose.

  His luck held for the next two stops, but at the third, a pasty-faced boy with messy blond hair clambered on, walked to Michael’s seat, and said, “C’mon, Michael. Scooch.”

  With an eye roll, Michael
slid over and looked out the window, ignoring the boy.

  He knows my name. I don’t even remember him. This is going to be tough. I’m not even sure which grade I’m supposed to be in. Let’s do the math. If this is May 1966, then I’m eight years old. Just finishing second grade, then. Perfect.

  “You got your project done yet?” the blond boy asked. I’m gonna finish mine this weekend. I’m making a map of Central America, using clay. What are you doing? Volcano?”

  Michael turned away from the window and glanced at the boy. He saw he was holding a piece of paper that read Permission Slip across the top. Below that was a name: Jack Bruner.

  Jack Bruner, Jack Bruner. Nope. No memory of him whatsoever.

  “Volcano? No, no. I’m attempting to replicate Gregor Mendel’s experiments with genetics in sweet peas, specifically whether or not certain characteristics are dominant or recessive. I’m breeding rats instead of pea plants. I’m hoping to develop a rat that will eat all the other rats. Good luck on your clay map.”

  Jack looked at him blankly. Michael glared at him. Finally, Jack said, “Oh. Okay, that’s great,” and looked straight ahead. The next time the bus stopped to pick someone up, he moved to a different seat. Michael could hear him talking to another boy, saying, “Oh, you’re making a volcano? Nifty.”

  Michael allowed himself a small smirk. Gotta find my fun where I can, I guess.

  A few minutes later, the bus pulled up to the covered area and all the kids hurried off, with Michael purposefully trailing the pack.

  Second grade. Mrs. Mayhew. She was a mean old bat, but at least I remember where the classroom was. This is going to be a long day.

  Michael wandered the halls of Middle Falls Elementary while kids filed into their various classrooms. Just as the bell rang, he darted into his classroom, spotted an empty desk, and took a chance it was his. He opened the hinged top and peered inside. He saw cursive handwriting samples inside, with his name scrawled across the top.

  Made it. One obstacle down, several million to go. But where did that paper come from? I didn’t make it. Was there another little Michael here yesterday, working on his handwriting? If so, where did he go?

  Mrs. Mayhew stood at her desk. She was thick from neck to toe, which made her head appear small for her body. She wore round spectacles pushed down to the end of her nose and a shapeless gray dress that might have once had a pattern on it, which had now faded into obscurity. Her face looked like an apple left out in the sun too long, complete with a crab-apple nose.

  “Settle down, now,” she said, though, aside from the scuffling of feet, no one was making any noise. “Last names A through J, over to the reading table. Everyone else, work on your math assignment on page twelve of your workbook.”

  Michael stood with six other children and moved to a low, sturdy table in the corner with books stacked in the middle. He spotted a boy in the back with wavy black hair. He was leaning back in his seat, whispering to the boy behind him.

  Zack Weaver. You bastard. You and your damned stupid brother. Tommy has really got something coming to him, first chance I get. Michael chuckled to himself. But, damn, if I’m only in second grade, then that little shit isn’t even in kindergarten yet. Guess I’ll have to wait a while to even that score.

  He walked by Zack on the way to the table, fixing him with a glare.

  “Michelle Fartister,” Zack said, with a smile that was so barefaced, Michael wanted to smash his face into the desk.

  I forgot. He was the one who started that. God, I hate him.

  When all seven children were seated around the kid-sized table, Mrs. Mayhew passed out copies of a book titled Friends Old and New.

  “Jeffery, open the book to the first story, The Lost and Found Tree, and start reading aloud, please.”

  Oh, good Christ. Just kill me now. No. Wait. Don’t. I’ll just have to start over again. The only way out of this hell is apparently one day at a time. This is my punishment.

  Six long hours later, Michael disembarked from the school bus, tired, frustrated, ready to kill something if an opportunity presented itself. He marched into the house through the back door and slammed it behind him, throwing his coat against the wall.

  “Oh, no! Who is coming into my kitchen with that bad attitude? What happened to the little boy that hugged me and said ‘thank you’ this morning? Where did he go?”

  Michael glared at Tess. She absorbed it with no reaction.

  “I had a shit day at school, that’s all.”

  Tess gasped. “Michael Hollister! For the sake of your hind end, I am going to pretend like I didn’t hear you say that. If Mr. Hollister heard you say that, he’d tan your hide.”

  “Mr. Hollister can kiss my ...”

  “Michael Scott Hollister! That’s enough! You march right up to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out.”

  “Fine!” Michael stomped up the stairs, down the hall and into his room, slamming his door behind him.

  Come on, come on. Gotta get ahold of myself. If I keep this up, I’ll end up where I don’t want to be—in a shrink’s office three days a week and medicated out of my mind. Calm down.

  Michael kicked off his shoes, climbed up on his bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Minutes later, he was asleep.

  He opened his eyes to the touch of Tess’s hand across his forehead.

  “I guess when you told me you weren’t feelin’ right this morning, you weren’t lying. You’ve never come home from school and laid down before. Are you hungry?”

  Michael nodded.

  “I made some chicken and dumplings for you. Your mother called and asked if I can stay late this evening. She and your father are going to some affair. Come on down and eat your dinner, then I’ll make some popcorn and we can watch the television.”

  Tess smiled at him. She didn’t close the door behind her.

  Even when I bitch her out, she’s still nice to me. Who else in my life was ever like that? No one.

  When Michael got to the bottom of the stairs, the smell of chicken and dumplings surrounded him. His stomach growled. It had been a long time since that peanut butter and jelly sandwich and banana at lunch.

  An hour later, he was stuffed full and sitting on the couch in what his mother called the television room.

  The television set wasn’t a new arrival in the Hollister house. Mr. Hollister had brought one home the year Michael was born. He liked to have the latest gadget and the best of everything in his house. The current television was one of the new color ones, in a cabinet that had a stereo on one end and a liquor cabinet on the other. It was the envy of everyone else on the block. Neither the television nor the stereo were turned on often, though. Mrs. Hollister liked a quiet house.

  Michael sat down in the middle of the couch with a small bowl of popcorn in his lap. Tess sat beside him with her knitting, not paying any attention to the television, which was tuned to CBS. The opening montage of The Wild Wild West came on.

  Hey, okay, not bad. I liked this show.

  When the show was over, Tess stood and walked to the television, clicking it off. “All right, young man. I think that’s enough of that kind of violence. Your parents would have my hide if they knew I let you watch that. Upstairs, into your pajamas, and say your prayers. I’ll be up to say goodnight.”

  “You’re kidding. It’s only 9 o’clock.”

  “Don’t act surprised by your own bedtime. Off with you now. March.”

  Michael laughed. “Okay, I’m going.”

  What else can I do?

  Before he went upstairs, Michael veered into his mother’s office. Don’t know why she ever needed an office. She never worked a day in her life.

  There was a small, neat desk against one wall, a two-drawer filing cabinet beside it. The desk had a calendar, blotter, and neat containers for pencils, pens, and paper clips. The calendar was marked with social occasions and fundraising benefits. There was a bookcase against the far wall. At eye level were Bible studies
and self-help books, like How to Win Friends and Influence People and The Power of Positive Thinking.

  Michael ran his fingers along the spines of those books. Boring, boring. Super-boring.

  From his vantage point closer to the ground, though, he spotted several books stacked behind the ones that were spine-out. He pulled the front books out a few inches and grabbed one of the hidden books. It was a worn paperback with two women on the cover, a church spire rising behind them. The title read Peyton Place.

  Hmmph. Better, but doesn’t look like me.

  He pulled out the second book. Valley of the Dolls. Michael heard Tess in the kitchen, washing the last few dishes, so he slipped Peyton Place back, grabbed Valley of the Dolls, and hustled upstairs. He threw his school clothes into the hamper in his room, then found some pajamas in the bottom drawer of his dresser and put them on. He slipped the book under his pillow.

  He did not pray. Even with incontrovertible evidence of life after death, Michael never prayed.

  Two minutes later, Tess came in, picked up a stray sock that had missed the hamper, ruffled Michael’s hair, then flipped off the light, closed his door, and went downstairs.

  Michael waited a few minutes to give Tess time to settle down into the comfy chair in the television room with her knitting, then crept across the room to his toy box, where he slid the knife out of its hiding place. Back in bed, he swapped the book and the knife, turned on the small light on the table next to his bed, and began to read.

  Chapter Eight

  Carrie and Bertellia sat on a bench beside a pond. A golden light emanated from above, warming their faces. Bertellia raised her face to it, soaking it in.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Bertellia said. “The universe is large beyond imagination. It contains an almost infinite number of dimensions, many of which are nearly identical. Each time you took your own life, a new dimension was created.”

  “How is it possible that a single action by someone as insignificant as me could cause an entire new dimension? I can’t believe that.”